


whisper into my ear and tell me that all you have is me

by chuntao



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Boot Worship, Demons, Dubious Consent (Not regarding sex), M/M, Mind Manipulation, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 19:04:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17648222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chuntao/pseuds/chuntao
Summary: Father Chen's kisses leave Kris weak-boned and at the back of his mind he’s thankful he’s already half prostrated before the priest, knees weakly holding him up as he kneels while Father Chen’s grip on his hair does the rest of the work.Indeed, there is nothing about this man that is human.or, that krischen AU with religion, a flesh eating demon, and some mild shoe worship





	whisper into my ear and tell me that all you have is me

**Author's Note:**

> prompt no. 155

There’s screaming. Guns firing and humans dying, a gory mess of limbs and blood in a manmade war fought in the name of peace. And Kris, Kris is so _tired_. Doesn’t want to be part of this even as he cocks his gun and aims and shoots and _bang_ – his target’s eyes roll back, body falling limp to the ground as blood seeps from their head. He counts to five, and starts again, and again, and again. Five more dead, only five more and-

“ _Kris_ … Kris!” And just like that’s he’s jerked back to reality, heart racing and nostrils flaring as he stares forward, eyes wide and hand shaking, white-knuckled fingers wrapped tight around the grip of a pistol. By his side, Yixing stands, fingers digging into Kris’ arm and voice steely, “Put down the gun before you do something you regret”.

The ceiling fan whirs above them, creating epileptic shadows against the walls of the small interrogation room. The chair that he had been seated on thrown to the ground, lying lamely on its side. The papers on the table strewn and messy, some fallen and left forgotten on the floor. Reality resurfaces in the inanimate, the fan is real, the chair is real, the papers are _real_ and that, that _vision_ is long gone now, the horrific _past_ nothing but an intangible memory.

The gun, that’s real too – it’s the only _real_ thing that links those two memories and Kris is quick to cast it away, hand jerky as he lets it clatter to the ground. A man cowers in the corner of the room, eyes-wide and figure pitifully trembling; an amass of messy emotional aftermath at the threat of a gun. Body boneless, Kris falls to the ground, knees hitting cold cement _hard_ and breath ragged, mind scrambling to distance himself from the war, and reground himself in reality. As hard as he might try, inevitably, lines blur as he curls in on himself, losing grip of what separates _now_ from _then_ and Kris is _so so_ lost.

Five days later and he’s sitting on a run-down bus, rickety engine wheezing as the vehicle painstakingly hauls Kris and his suitcase up a snow-laden mountain into white-topped forestry; dense enough that as they enter the trees, the only light comes from the bus’ weak yellow-tinted headlights. This is what’s best for him – or at least that’s what Yixing says. A bit of rest, a bit of _recovery_ somewhere up in the mountains where a weapon like a _gun_ won’t be necessary. Yixing says this, but Kris knows how to read between the lines, even when he’s flitting back and forth between reality and trauma-induced waking nightmares. He’s a threat in the city, carrying around a _gun_ and breaking down every few weeks; a dangerous _risk_ that the department can’t take.

So he’s shuttled off to a quiet town in the middle of nowhere on an unsuspecting Sunday, a pocket-sized area where the town square, church, and residential units all lie within a ten minute walk of one another. _Quaint_ and _uneventful_ , it’s a town that exists on the boundary of modern-day society; so far removed that with every passing day it threatens to fall behind the curve of contemporary modernity. And as he departs the bus, the town becomes impossibly _quieter_ , the thick of the forest and soft compounding of the snow trapping and muffling any sound. It’s so quiet that Kris momentarily wonders if _this_ will be even _more_ maddening than the resurging memories that haunt him in the city.

A chime cuts through the dense silence, and Kris turns his head to spot the town’s small church, bell tolling at the top of a thin tower. The structure is easy to spot – even within the heavy snow – coloured stained glass illuminated from the inside-out. For a moment, Kris thinks he catches something glinting _red_ at the top of the tower, gleaming _dangerous_ near the bell that is otherwise shrouded in shadowed darkness. However, any attention drawn to it falls away when a hand taps him on the shoulder, Kris’ body violently jerking back before his gaze settles on a small woman, frail wisps of greying hair falling from a prim bun at the back of her head.

She offers an unfazed smile even in the wake of his surprise, aged hand pressing firm against his upper arm. “You must be Yifan, the new officer?”

“ _Kris_ ,” he’s quick to correct it – quick to leave behind a name and an identity he doesn’t want to remember. “Officer _Kris_ Wu”.

It’s almost impressive how little time it takes for the old woman to hobble through the entirety of the town’s highlights, the majority of the town’s structures within eyesight from practically any point throughout town. She takes him to a small cottage nestled into the town centre, tells him everything is already stocked up for his arrival: kitchenware, oil for the lamps, bedsheets and linens. Her kind welcome isn’t limited only to her, and as Kris passes through the town, more people emerge from the warmth of their home to wave, introducing themselves to the latest visitor to grace their desolate town.

There is however, one _notable_ person absent from these greeting festivities. Perhaps if Kris hadn’t spoken to the townspeople beyond a ‘hello’ he wouldn’t have even noted the missing presence. But as it is, in almost every conversation, a certain ‘Father Chen’ is brought up, presented with fond smiles and sparkling eyes at the mere mention of their town’s local priest.

✙　…　✙

Time passes slowly in the town, and without much else to preoccupy his time, Kris finds himself wandering down the wide path to the expanse of the church the day following his arrival. The townspeople are more than happy to point him in the right direction (even if Kris can very much _see_ where the church is for himself), seemingly delighted at the thought of him meeting Father Chen for the first time. Great and revered Father Chen – Kris truly wonders what one man could have possibly done to deserve verbal accolades of such high esteem.

When he arrives, the church is cold; natural lighting and scattered candles doing little to battle winter’s chill while the hard stone and tile actively refuse to soak up any offered heat as wood might. Devoid of any townsmen save for Kris, the silence gives Kris’ footsteps an eerie echo as he proceeds deeper into the church; steps weary as if with every movement forward he risks startling a monster. For a moment, he considers pausing before the altar, staring at the crucified statue heading the front of the hall. But what good had religion been in the war? So many had prayed to live, to return home with their lives intact only to have it all snatched away – preyed on by the greed of violence. In the face of war, religion was nothing more than an impotent waste of breath.

Religion, no _God_ , was not worthy of his worship.

Door already open, Kris enters a small office tucked into the corner of the church with a soft knock to the door, announcing his arrival to the single occupant. Well-lit with orange-flamed candlesticks, a man sits in the centre of the office, dark clothes pressed and neat, settling as he rises and holds out his hand across an ornate desk in polite greeting. Imposing, the desk takes up at least half of the office space, rich coloured mahogany carved into religious depictions of a fervour-backed history. Its sheer width alone makes Kris bow his back slightly as he reaches out to meet the handshake, head stubbornly refusing to dip down with the movement as he stares, unblinking at the man before him.

(He’s quick to let go of the man’s cold hand and right himself, finding unexpected relief in distancing himself from the stranger).

“Yifan, isn’t it? Please, address me as Father Chen, I’m the priest of this humble church”. The priest offers a smile but something about it unnerves Kris, something isn’t quite _right_ and it sends shivers down Kris’ back, the officer unsure what to do with this information.

Kris cuts him off before he can continue, voice sharp, “Kris – my name’s Kris”. Father Chen is so much _smaller_ than him, it doesn’t make sense why he’s so weary of the man. If he so desired, the entirety of Kris’ palm could probably fit around Father Chen’s throat with ease, could probably _choke_ Father Chen with ease. Kris _knows_ all of this, yet it doesn’t stop _fright_ from easing through his veins, gripping _tight_ to his heart as it beats with adrenaline-induced _vigour_ ; the path to fear and panic well-practised after the war.

“I prefer calling you _Yifan_ ”. There’s something twinkling in Father Chen’s eyes, akin to amusement a child holds for their toy. His voice is sickeningly _smooth_ and almost _sweet_ and Kris _hates hates hates_ it. Hates how it sounds of nothing but false promises and _lies_ yet it still manages to _appeal_ to the deepest part of him, _alluring_ and enticing in every component of its spoken form. Hates how Father Chen speaks as if every statement is a command and _expected_ to be taken as gospel – and perhaps in this town it _is_.

Father Chen calls Kris _Yifan_ and he hates it.

“The curfew? It’s for their own good – you never know _what_ kind of demons lurk in the darkness of the night”. As if in thought, Father Chen taps his chin with the flat of his index finger, recalling, “How does that saying go again? Better safe than… _dead_?” This time when Kris looks into Father Chen’s eyes he swears there’s an unnatural glint in the man’s gaze – a speckle of _red_ that most _certainly_ isn’t supposed to be there.

(A speckle of _red_ that most _certainly_ isn’t _human_ ).

✙　…　✙

There’s very little Kris knows about Father Chen, and yet, he knows everything about the man. He knows that every townsman considers Father Chen a literal godsend, a kind young man who had miraculously chased out a demon that had inhabited the town years prior. He knows that Father Chen is the one who instigated a curfew, citing _safety_ from the elements in the forest should the demon from years’ past emerge once again. He knows that before he came to the town Father Chen didn’t go to war as he was a disciple of God – peaceful. He knows that the townspeople revere Father Chen almost as much as God himself.

“He’s our _saviour_ , helps keep the demons in the forest at bay”.

“Before he was here, demons would sneak into our village every month and steal away one of our children”.

“Only once Father Chen arrived did the kidnappings halt”.

“Father Chen is not only a saviour, but a _blessing_ sent from Heaven itself”.

Something about this town and its reverence with Father Chen is _very_ , _very_ wrong.

✙　…　✙

Deep into the night, Kris stirs in his bed, tossing and turning in a fitful dream that ends with him drenched in sweat; toes curling against the cold floorboards as he gets up and starts the kettle, seeking warmth and sanctuary from his dreams. Even now, months after he had been sent away to this quiet town, nightmares still creep into his head in the middle of the night – abhorring flashbacks from a war-torn soldier and state that seize his muscles and leave him paralyzed with fear. Eyes unsteady and staring out the window, he happens to notice a flicker of motion, a _child_ just barely lit by the town square’s dim streetlights – a child out _far_ past curfew with not a single parent in sight.

He watches the child closely, seeing the small body disappear towards the wide road that leads to the church and Kris debates whether he should leave, wonders _what_ could possibly be in the forest should he choose to exit the safe confines of his home. The kettle’s loud hissing cuts through his self-preservative thoughts and Kris knows what he should do. He’s quick to pull on his thick woollen coat, shoving his feet into untied shoes as he hastily throws open the door. Religiosity-rooted demons be _damned_ the _child_ wasn’t safe out here alone so late into the night whether or not there were any ‘demons’ lurking about. One step outdoors and _cold_ seeps into his bones but it’s too late; Kris can’t simply go back inside knowing a child was out here alone.

Reaching the end of the road that leads to the church, he catches sight of Father Chen emerging from the church, pale hand extended out into the cold as it beckons the child closer and _inside_. Tiny fingers reach out to the offered hand without hesitance and Kris is close enough to notice that _something_ is not right. The child is without gloves, without coat, without _shoes_. _Surely_ the child should be shivering, should _feel_ the bone-chilling cool.

Kris’ instincts scream at him, protesting every step as he gets closer and closer to the church. Every fibre in his body tries to direct him away, back towards safety and heat. Back behind a deadbolted door and tightly closed curtains. Yet foolishly, he continues forward. Slamming open the door, Kris catches the glint of red eyes in the darkness of the church and just as quickly as he discerns two figures in the darkness, one of them disappears, and the child falls to floor, body limp against the hard tile.

Quick to run to the child’s side, Kris crouches down, hand slipping under the child’s head and gently cradling it off the floor. Kris doesn’t even get a chance to speak as sound comes from behind him, a quiet and familiar _tsk_ that he can place even without words to accompany it and Kris, Kris is about to turn his head, about to turn and face the inevitable familiar face until –.

Kris wakes in bed the next morning, sore and cold despite the soft mattress and thick blankets tucking him in. Turning his head, he jerks up to find Father Chen sitting by his bedside, perched on a small wooden stool while paging through a worn bible. Perfect well-rehearsed _concern_ flits through the priest’s emotions, eyebrows knitted together and tone soft, gentle, and _worried_ , “Oh thank goodness you’re awake, I’ve been so _worried_. A child from the town ran all the way to the church in the cold to tell me he had seen you collapse through your window. You really _ought_ to take it slower Yifan”.

Father Chen’s words take time for Kris to process and they feel _wrong_ to his memories, feel like nothing more than compounded _lies_ but in the end all Kris manages is slow and tedious acknowledgement, nodding his head. When he speaks, he can’t even breech the _wrongness_ that the priest’s explanation has pushed into his stomach, simply states, “It’s Kris”.

He’s always hated Father Chen calling him _Yifan_.

Standing from his seated position on the stool, Father Chen brushes invisible dust off his black robes, kindly smiling down at Kris, the other still unmoving on his bed, “Try not to stay out after dark _Yifan_ ,” Kris grits his teeth, “You never know what might be lurking in the woods, just _waiting_ to pounce on a specimen like you”.

✙　…　✙

Almost a year after Kris has come to this town he decides to confront Father Chen. The amount of unexplained memories of red eyes and a haunting smile have grown to a point that he can no longer ignore. Even if no one else remembers the things that he does, these memories have reached a point that rather than dreaming of bullet-ridden battlefields, he dreams of Father Chen; of the stained glass staining the dark insides of the church. All-encompassing and just as frightful if not _more_ than his memories of the war. He approaches the church with resolute purpose on an empty Tuesday afternoon, steps steady in contrast to his frazzled mind as he walks straight between the rows of pews to the front of the small church – resolute in his advancing stride forward.

Assurance only lasts for so long as soon Kris finds himself kneeling at the front of the church, watching with lost eyes as Father Chen motions for him to stay put. (Motions for him to stay in his _place_ on his _knees_ ). And as much as Kris wants to leave, childishly, he seeks _answers_ more than his own safety.

“You’re intrigued aren’t you?”

At the head of the altar, a crucified Jesus weeps against a golden cross, purposefully centred over a table of religious accoutrement. Any grand intention for the figure’s placement is lost as Father Chen’s figure overshadows the arrangement; the priest swiftly leaning down, upper body crossing the short barrier attached to the kneeler until he’s mere centimetres away from Kris. Firm, Father Chen reaches over to bridge the gap that remains, fingers fisting in Kris’ hair and pulling him up for a kiss, impossibly strong and imposing for his smaller stature. He takes and _takes_ from the kiss, presses in and pulls Kris’ hair _hard_ , bites on Kris’ lips until blood flows and Kris swears he heard the priest _moan_ at the taste. Father Chen’s kisses leave Kris weak-boned and at the back of his mind he’s _thankful_ he’s already half prostrated before the priest, knees weakly holding him up as he kneels while Father Chen’s grip on his hair does the rest of the work. Grip still tight even after he pulls back from the kiss, Father Chen stares down at Kris with red eyes, lazily licking his lips of the remnants of Kris’ blood.

Indeed, there is _nothing_ about this man that is human.

“Let me tell you a story. A story of how I came to this town”. Father Chen’s fist twists in Kris’ hair and the human winces. His eyes remain fixed on the priest, physically and mentally unable to look away, “The woods were so empty, so lonely… but by chance, I found this place and the little humans that resided here.”

✙　…　✙

_Flesh_ gathers, clustered deep inside wooden confines and around oil-lit paths, tittering and practically _bleeding_ with that delicious _tantalizing_ smell only a human can create. Red eyes stare out from the dark of the forest, shape morphing into something _prey-like_ to mimic the humans. A tight jaw grinds the newly formed teeth, canines sharpening under the pressure and lips smacking as it breathes in that heady human scent. Bones crack as the newly formed human figure tilts its neck, movements stiff and doll-like as it tests the limits of its self-composed form.

Carnage, bloody and grotesque gore that melts onto its tongue. Supple skin gives way underneath sharp teeth, strength abnormal for any _human_ and ruby eyes suggesting anything _but_ human. Dark crimson dots the snow and bones fall softly into the cold, bits of flesh and partially consumed muscle still attached at the ends.

_Another_ its urges demand.

The population is diminishing and _it_ – _it_ understands that to keep this lifestyle _it_ must not indulge with such gluttony. Must _restrain_ itself rather than _luxuriate in_ these excessive feedings. So it makes use of its human like form, recalls century-old information about its prey and makeshifts cloak-like clothing, heavy and _black_ in a way that won’t stain no matter how much a prey’s red may try. A _priest_ it calls itself. Entering the town, it’s easy for _it_ to weave a story about its presence under the guise of this disciple of God.

“I am but a humble priest who has heard this village’s cries for help and am here to exhume you of your suffering”. Charming and _alluring_ , naturally so as it draws in its human prey with silver-spun words and falsified emotions of _concern_ and _care_. “There is a vile _demon_ that has infested your borders. A servant of the devil no doubt”. Sworn to _banish_ this ‘demon’, it finds itself all-too-easily incorporated into the town, _Father Chen_ fitting into their small community like a missing puzzle piece as his presence alone somehow stops the disappearance of the townspeople.

Still, the priest warns them not to go into the woods – as long as Father Chen was here the demon would be confined to the woods. As long as the townspeople stayed away from the woods they would be safe. _It_ however still makes use of the woods, taking its prey there and slaughtering them in the covert quiet of early uninhabited night. Father Chen hears of the missing child the next day and goes into the woods to search, only to come back with a grim frown fixed on his lips as he shakes his head, sorrow painted onto the priest’s expression as he tells the family that the child must have wandered out past curfew for the demon has devoured the human whole save only for his bones and clothing.

(That night, Father Chen’s appetite is satisfied for the first time in months).

Time passes and _it_ learns, becoming increasingly _human_ as Father Chen grows in power and influence in the town. Before long, they worship _it_ like _it_ was a god; and even if _it_ can’t feed on _flesh_ , the blood of the children serves its temporary purpose as he waits for more prey to be born into the world. Thorough records are written of the towns’ population, thoughtful disappearances that are fed into the cult mentality Father Chen has created: _they were out past curfew_ , _they didn’t believe in the protection of god_ , _sinners at heart_. Those who ‘leave for another town’ are never heard of again and through it all not a single inhabitant suspects even the slightest hint of ill intent.

Father Chen really is perfect at pretending to be the very _prey_ it takes so much enjoyment in feeding from.

✙　…　✙

"They’re absolutely delectable”. Loud and vile, Father Chen smacks his lips, tasting invisible remnants of a long-passed meal. He talks as if he’s making casual conversation with Kris, unfazed and almost _uncaring_ of Kris’ presence even though Father Chen’s grip physically demands it. In the next moment his grip is loosening until it’s completely gone as he releases his hold, taking a step back with a gleaming grin, “But why do away with them all when I can farm them?”

Finding strength in his legs, Kris jerks away, falling back onto the church tile and scrambling backwards and onto his feet before he’s sprinting out of the church. He runs into town, steps heavy and weighed down by the accumulating snow. The town square is empty save for a few townsfolk who peek their head outside of their doors and give him a quizzical look. A child meets his eyes and mouths ‘ _curfew_ ’ in a way that sends chills down Kris’ spine, the pieces of the horrific mystery in this storybook town coming together.

‘ _Better safe than… dead’_.

Haunting, the words echo and creep into Kris’ delusional loop of thought, repetitious as they worm their way inside his head; curving and pressing in tight against each crevice on the surface of his brain. Just like that, Kris feels as if the whole town is watching him, as if _Father Chen_ is watching him and he flees the town centre just as quickly as he had arrived – seeking safety when he already _knows_ there’s none to be found, not in this town.

That night he hides in his quaint little cottage, burying himself under layers of blankets with a knife by his bedside, half expecting Father Chen to come and _hunt_ him down after his confession. Fingers shake as they bolt the door shut, gas light casting flickering images of monsters lurking in the shadows; monsters that Kris wants to hide from just as much as Father Chen.

That night, Kris dreams of kissing Father Chen again. Of Father Chen licking the blood from his lips and devouring him whole.

The next morning Father Chen hasn’t come yet and Kris feels as if he’s being toyed with – and he is, in the end, that is the one thing he’s sure about.

So he takes a risk, rushes out his door and tries to find _someone_ who will listen. _Someone_ who will believe him when he says that Father Chen is no _priest_. Father Chen is a _monster_ , a _demon_ wearing human skin. But no one, _no one_ listens to him. They skirt away from Kris, close doors on him and watch him from afar with soft murmurs and wide eyes, untrusting on someone who would speak so poorly of their _saviour_.

Not an hour later, and a man comes running into the town square, voice shaky and violent as he clutches a corpse in his arms. Small, and lifeless, eyes empty and body already showing the signs of decomposition as Kris stares wide-eyed at the scene. It’s the same boy from before, the one that _Father Chen_ had _taken_ so many months ago. This is all _madness_ all over again, a nightmare playing in front of his very eyes and Kris flees to his small home once again, shutting the door with a loud _bang_ that does not go ignored – even by the mourning townspeople.

They’re quick to converge at the church, wails loud and tears wetting the snow as they _beg_ Father Chen to help them, to _save_ them once again. To bring them a _miracle_ and tell them who or _what_ could possibly have taken another precious child from their town.

Father Chen, calm as ever, asks if anyone has been acting strangely, lips quirking and expression thoughtful as he suggests, “Perhaps someone has been possessed by a demon?”

Murmurs overtake the crowd, the townspeople barely sparing even a second before they’ve all come to the same conclusion: Kris.

Nodding and humming to himself in response, Father Chen gives one last resolute nod before speaking once again, commanding the horde, “Bring Yifan here and I shall cleanse him – only after which I will judge him”.

So they come to Kris, push open Kris’ door and Kris, Kris can’t fight against them. They’re innocent in all of this, innocent in the web of deceit and manipulative control Father Chen exercises over the small town. He only has half the mind to grab his kitchen knife as the frenzied hands pull him out and push him towards the church.

_Judgement_ has arrived.

✙　…　✙

Kris is standing at the entrance of the church, forced inside by the townspeople. Father Chen approaches him at a frighteningly slow pace, and Kris’ grip on the kitchen knife only tightens, knuckles whitening under the pressure. Holding a rosary in one hand, Father Chen opens his arms in a faux welcoming gesture, tilting his head as he looks up to Kris, “ _Yifan_ , what a pleasure it is to welcome you back into the home of God. Shall I enlighten you of your God-given purpose after entering this holy ground?”

Only centimetres away now, Father Chen grips Kris’ free wrist and tugs on it, pulling the taller man down until he’s staggering to meet the shorter man’s eyes. Voice softer now, Father Chen’s voice manages to be almost sing-song like as he whispers, “But first, shall I tell you a secret Yifan?” Closer, and _closer_ , Father Chen is crowding in on Kris until all he’s breathing in is the priest, _Father Chen_ affronting each of his senses, “They always taste better when they’re young”.

Kris jerks back, knife emerging from its hidden spot behind his back and coming forward to blindly swing before him. It snags, ripping into flesh and for a moment, Kris thinks he’s _won_ – one simple stab and he’s absolved all of his problems in this small town. Only it’s not that simple and Father Chen is nothing if not unfazed, expression almost _bored_ as he reaches down to pull the knife from his side and away from Kris’ grip. In one fluid motion his hand finds purchase on Kris’ neck, other hand gripping tight around the blade of the knife; eyes shining a bright red and knife wound bleeding a beautiful contrasting neon-blue. The same blue inhumanly gushes from Father Chen’s hand that remains tight around the knife, the other hand preoccupied with closing his grip around Kris’ neck until his vision spots and he’s dropping to the ground.

Consciousness returns in a matter of seconds, but it’s enough time for Father Chen to clamber over and onto Kris’ chest, unexpected strength pinning the larger man there as he releases the knife onto the floor with a soft clatter. Kris’ eyes are drawn to the dripping wound on the priest’s hand and before he knows it, Father Chens’ bleeding palm is pressing over his mouth and he’s drowning in fluorescent blue. He _tries_ not to swallow it, to resist the tight grip and break away but all he manages is a few futile coughs as Father Chen’s blue blood slowly fills his mouth. Father Chen leans down and closer, continuing his speech from before while Kris struggles uselessly under him, “Some may say blood is the best part, but they’re all _liars_. No, the best part is the child’s flesh. So soft and _supple_ , a delicacy in every right”. Keeping a tight grasp over Kris’ mouth, Father Chen watches Kris choke beneath him, the human’s neck straining and venous with effort.

The priest is the last thing Kris sees before the world goes dark.

✙　…　✙

Kris wakes up to the cold of the church floor, cheek pressed against the tile and eyes drawn to the entrance, its wooden doors askew just enough for the weak illumination from a street light to scatter across the ground – one last glimmer of light in a darkness on the brink of swallowing him whole. Through the crack he watches as snow falls outside, soft flakes separating the church from the outside world and settling an entrancing quiet over his muddled thoughts. _Red_ catches his attention as a figure steps out from the shadows, familiar eyes glittering even in the darkness that shrouds this holy ground. The door closes not with a loud foreboding _boom_ , but with a slow creak of rusty hinges that speaks of all the time in the world.

Equally as slow, Father Chen’s leisurely footsteps echo against the hard of the floor, approaching. Even if his eyes are red Kris can’t bring himself to be scared. No, he’s entranced, _enamoured_ even. How could one not be in the presence of their very own saviour? Father Chen reaches Kris with his expression shadowed over, but even without the visual curve of his lips, Kris knows that Father Chen is smiling. Lips curling and eyes crinkling ever so slightly in an expression that spoke of nothing but patronising amusement, “We’ve taken too long haven’t we? It’s far past your curfew little one”.

Just like that Kris is scrambling against the tile before Father Chen’s feet, reaching for what he isn’t sure. Hands grasp at Father Chen’s shoes and pull at his pant legs, looking up, pleading, _begging_. There’s nothing left in Kris, nothing but sheer _desperation_ for anything that Father Chen is willing to give him. Even in the face of Kris’ speedy desperation Father Chen’s movements remain slow, purposeful as he bends at the waist to meet Kris’ gaze with his own ruby red eyes, smiling as he grips Kris’ hand on his leg and pries the human’s grubby fingers off with a distasteful scoff, reprimanding and disapproving.

Blue still trickles down Father Chen’s hand, a sinuous almost luminescent liquid that drips from the priest’s fingers and onto his shoes; staining the dark leather. Kris isn’t sure what it is (something akin to _blood_ registers in the back of his mind), but an instinctual voice inside of him tells him to _lick_ it; tells him to consume each and every last drop of this God-given liquid. Unprompted he presses his lips to Father Chen’s shoe, greedily licking away the blue substance with almost ludicrous fervour. Tongue pressed flat against the surface he chances a look up, watching as the priest’s eyes simply flicker disinterested red in response, neck bent over as he examines Kris and his movements.

“Aren’t you a pathetic needy thing”.

“ _Please_ ”.

Father Chen rights himself and Kris whimpers from the distance put between them, half sobbing as Father Chen presses the sole of his shoe to Kris’ cheek, pushing the human into the ground. Each movement is done with a type of purpose that leaves Kris desperate for more, desperate for Father Chen to acknowledge his presence, to _praise_ him. So, by the time Father Chen is walking away, Kris _is_ crying; ugly sobs cutting through the silence of the church only for Father Chen to halt at the end of a line of pews. Stained glass illuminating his features in fractals of coloured light, hands clasped tightly behind his back – yet Kris still feels as if Father Chen is motionlessly beckoning him closer.

“Come now, we have much to accomplish little one”.

_Yifan_ doesn’t hesitate.

(Father Chen calls Kris _Yifan_ and he hates it).

**Author's Note:**

> i'd like to extend a big big thank you to our wonderful mods! thank you for putting so much work into this fest and encouraging us through every step of the process (*ﾉωﾉ)


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